Teach me how to zombie

I used to have a hula girl jiggling her booty away on the dashboard of my car, a gift from a friend from her trip to Hawaii, but the harsh Australian sun was unkind to poor Leilani and she ultimately died a grisly death, bleached white and a little melted by the sun. Now I have a zombie.

The two are in no way related.

Recently a friend decided I needed a new commuter friend, and bought me a dashboard zombie.  I've named him Emerson.  I have no idea why, he just looked like an Emerson. I was given him at a fourth birthday party. I wasn't four, the guest of honour was.  As a grown up who hasn't really grown up, I often feel a bit like a poor man's Carrie from Sex and the City when I roll up to one of these soirées, minus the hangover and the heels.  I tend to roll in a bit late and feel distinctly out of place as proper adults discuss things like mortgages, gas bills and rates, babies and schooling systems.  I haven't owned my own house since before the property boom, and I currently live in accommodation which includes utilities, so I'm a bit vague on topics like this, and somehow chatting about my most recent trip overseas in the face of such fiscal woe just seems a bit tactless...

Anyway, the zombie. It was a source of some fascination for my friend's five year old nephew - let's call him Oscar. Because I like that name. And Sesame Street.

At the end of the party, several of us headed down the road to the car, including my friend and Oscar.  Oscar and I were discussing zombies - you know, the usual.  Like what we would do in the event of a zombie apocalypse, the most effective method to incapacitate a zombie, and what it would be like to actually BE a zombie.  While discussing the possibility of disguising ourselves as zombies, we decided to practice our zombie walks on the way down the road to the car.

We shambled along, some distance behind the rest of the group.  It's hard to walk quickly when your nerves are barely firing, your ankle is twisted into a weird angle and you have to pause every now and then to moan, "brrraaaaaaaiiiiiiinnnnnnsssss," and sniff out fresh meat. Plus, we would pause to critique each other's method - "try to hunch over a bit more," or "drag your foot a bit more" or "slower! We aren't those new zombies from Resident Evil" (not that he has seen it, of course) or "nice shambling there".  As we rounded the corner, we nearly crashed into a middle-aged man and his young son and daughter casually riding their bikes down the street.

I apologised, and Oscar explained that we were searching for fresh brains.

"Not at all," he replied in a crisp British accent, "I've been in your situation myself."

We did the only thing a couple of zombies could in such a situation; moan "bbbbrrrrraaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiinnnnnnssssss," and shamble after the group as fast as our decaying flesh would allow us.

I think of that moment whenever I'm in the car and I see Emerson quivering in anticipation of fresh human flesh as I drive.

Road ragers beware. Emerson is looking forward to meeting you.

Loving this song right now.